


Between The Lies

by coveredbyroses



Series: 2019 SPN Kink Bingo [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Dubious Consent, F/M, Rough Sex, Sex in/on the Impala (Supernatural), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Dean hasn’t cared about much except blood and violence since taking on The Mark, and he’s a breath away from the edge.





	Between The Lies

The gun’s cocked, aimed right at your forehead. You swallow hard, hands raised as cold emerald eyes burn into you.

“The hell are you doing?” His voice is deep and flat, full lips barely moving around the words.

“Dean-”

You’re dead center in the street of a middle-class neighborhood where just  _anyone_  could see.

But Dean doesn’t seem to care, hasn’t cared about much except blood and violence since taking on The Mark.

“You  _followed_  me?” His head bobs with the question, bolt of his jaw working under scruff-dusted skin.

“I can’t let you work this case, Dean,” you say grimly, eyes darting between his face and the metal barrel.

“Oh - you’re gonna stop me?” His eyes are wide; amused.

You release a nervous breath of a chuckle. “I gotta try.”

“Is that right? Where’s Sam?”

“At the bunker,” you lie.

“Go home,” he says, chin dipping with a threatening gaze.

“No.”

“ _No?_ ” Dean parrots, eyes blooming wide.

Your arms are starting to burn from keeping them raised for so long, but you don’t dare move.

“Please. I’ll do anything…Just drop the case.”

A thick pause hangs in the mild Spring air before he speaks again. “Anything, huh?” His mossy gaze rakes over the length of you. It’s just a quick flick, but you know the meaning of it.

And god, you’ll take it.

He thumbs off the safety and tucks the colt away. “Get in the car.”

The Impala sits neatly parked on the side of street, glossy onyx paint gleaming in the mid-afternoon sun. You hiss when he clamps a strong hand around your bicep, dress shoes clacking against the gray pavement as he walks you toward the old beast.

You start to round the rear of the car when Dean  _yanks_ to him, reaches around you to wrench the back door open.

Jesus.  _Here?_

He uses his weight to rush you inside, onto sun-warmed leather.

“Dean,” you gasp, rolling to your back. “Let’s just…let’s get back to the bunker first, huh?”

He slithers right over you, leaves the door open wide as he drops to box your head between heavy suited arms. He dips his head down so that his nose is crushed up against yours, breath a rhythmic heat against your mouth. “What happened to  _anything_ ,” he says; eyes hard, lips pulled into a sneer.

“I…” you swallow. Fuck he’s so close, smells so goddamned  _good_ …

“You goin’ back?” he asks, breath hot and damp against you. He pulls back when you don’t answer; chin lifting, eyes slowly roving over your face. “I’m giving you an out,” he explains, then shifts to one arm so he can drag three knuckles down the the length of your cheek. “So, what’s it gonna be? Hmm?”

You should probably say no with the way you can feel the pulsing heat of The Mark bleeding into you - and you if you looked, you’d probably see the fiery glow of it even underneath his charcoal sleeves. But you’re buzzing with a dangerous energy, slicking up between the legs with the way his gaze sinks into you, with the way the bulky mass of him pins you into the leather.

“Fuck me…” It’s just a hint of a whisper, and Dean’s head cocks.

“Sorry…I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Fuck me,” you repeat, louder.

He grins.

Dark jade hues stay locked on you as he hitches back to his heels. He gets a firm grip on your jeans and  _pulls._ The roughness of it makes you yelp, and the brass button detaches, ricocheting off the ribbed back of the seat. Blunt nails scratch at your hips as he works your pants down, gets them down around your shins before pushing your knees as wide as narrow space allows.

He leans down then and spits, fucking  _spits_  right on your cunt, then uses his fingers to smear the slick through your folds, swirls it with the warm wet already gathered at your opening.

He falls back over you then, thunks down to his forearm while his free hand works his dress pants open. You hear the heavy thump of the gun as it falls from him to drop into the floorboard, a part of you a little relieved that thing isn’t on him.

Your eyes are quickly clouding with lust, delicious heat thrumming through you as you wait; stretched out and trembling underneath him.

It’s a bit of a weird position; your legs bound by the bunched denim of your jeans while your knees are spread wide. He’s got one knee wedged between you and the seat, the other planted somewhere down in the floorboard. You’re trapped, held fast under pressed fabric and muscle.

A hand jams against your throat, fingers coiling tight. His eyes are a deep juniper as he just holds you there; watching as your lips go slack with thready breaths, as your cheeks redden from his squeeze. His fingers relax just a tic as he lines up-

And then he  _SNAPS_ into you, sheathing every inch of himself inside your slick heat. The burning stretch of it feels  _incredible_ , has your hands clamping down on his thick arms as you twitch, groaning deep.

He gets down on both elbows, uses the power in his hips to fall into a  _fierce_  rhythm. The heavy drag of him in and out has your back arching, fingernails clawing at his jacket as he  _pump-pump-pumps_.

Sweat’s breaking across your skin as he cranks the brutal pleasure, and god it’s good - makes you want to fucking  _scream_  - but you don’t. You grunt, gasp, and groan; cry his name like it’s a lifeline - because this is how he wants you; wrecked and desperate, clinging to him while  _he_  stokes the fire, while  _he_ makes you crack around him.

“Please-please-please,” you chant; high and pitchy, the sound punched out in time with every thrust. “Gonna come, Dean - fuck! God, please -  _please_  make me come…”

You can tell by the raspy-deep grit of his voice that he’s nearing his own end, so he obliges-

But not without wrapping that heavy hand back around your throat, fingers squeezing. His muscles clench and ripple under your grip as he keeps working into you-

“Look at me,” he rasps. He shoves your head deep into the leather, and your eyes snap to his. “You ready to come?” You nod vehemently, feel the blood pounding behind your eyeballs as his crushing grip constricts your airways. “Then you’d better play with that little clit.” His smile is dark, wolfish, and it makes you  _clench_.

You don’t have to be told twice. You bring a hand down to the slick flesh between you, rub yourself in tight, swirling little circles while he keeps jerking into you.

God, you’re close - right  _there_  - but you need something more.

You get your free hand on the wide wrist at your throat, pull his grip harder against yourself. You see a glint of amusement flash across his eyes, a twinkle of pride-

And then he’s fucking  _snarling_  as he pistons into you. Each snap of his hips burns away at the oxygen, but it’s so goddamned  _good_.

Just as dark starts to splotch your vision, you fall. His hand leaves you at the first spasm, thumps against the door behind you as you twist and buck underneath him. He’s still pumping; grinding into you, grunting deep.

His thrusts begin to falter, and then he goes bowstring taut as he stills and shudders. Your name breaks past his lips as he comes, cock twitching as he pulses into you.

You’re boneless and heavy by the time he pulls out, and it takes all your strength to heave yourself up. You give a little sigh at the ruined clasp of your jeans, tug your shirt down over the gaping, wrinkled V of them.

“Out,” Dean says, voice harsh as he steps back out onto the pavement. You follow, leather groaning under you as you scoot.

The sun warms the top of your head, and the breeze is quiet and gentle between you.

“Get back to the bunker,” he mumbles, hands smoothing over his suit. His eyes are locked onto the minuscule task. He’s deliberately avoiding your gaze and it makes your chest ache.

“So…you’ll drop this? The case?”

“Yeah,” Dean lies. His smile’s tight, just a quick tug of his lips, gaze reaching over your head. “M’gonna pick up some grub. See ya in a bit.”

You nod solemnly as he ducks into the driver’s seat, engine growling as he peels away. It’s a good minute before you turn, boots crunching over stray gravel as you head back to your car.


End file.
